Inheritance My cupped hands carry ancient lines of dark rooms dense with hookah, chai, and mad men who bang on the daff and chant ‘Oraat mard kor dosak mei lakae jai gee’. * My cupped hands are fed, wed to speculative phrases, bound in his interpretations, fluent with accusations. I am made of his rib yet I deserve his spit. Ancient lines of moonlit […]
Such a hauntingly beautiful poem, words cannot do it justice. Thank you for gifting us with it Qudsia.